


Like Gravity

by kaylin_neya



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-03
Updated: 2012-08-03
Packaged: 2017-11-11 09:02:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaylin_neya/pseuds/kaylin_neya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. A different way Mike comes to work for Harvey--he works for someone else first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Gravity

**Author's Note:**

> Minor slash.

It’s not unusual for Harvey to be called into Jessica’s office at ungodly hours of the night. She has an uncanny knack for knowing what days he’ll be working late—or else, more likely, a sophisticated secretarial network that keeps her updated on his comings and goings—and Jessica generally prefers to conduct their conversations when the rest of the firm has gone home for the night.

What is unusual is for Harvey to stroll into his office at nine thirty in the morning and find her sitting at his desk, tossing his Jeter signed baseball from hand to hand and staring at the clock. Without looking over she throws the ball at the door; he stretches out his left hand to catch it, wincing at the pull in his shoulder. 

“Jessica,” he says, covering his surprise with boldness, “you are in fine form this morning. I give it a seven for accuracy but a ten for style.”

Meanwhile, he’s retracing his steps over the past two days in his head—he’d fibbed to opposing council about the strength of the precedent he’d found involving intellectual property rights on the Martinez lawsuit, but Jessica wouldn’t frown on that. He’d used Vanessa to dig up private information on a key witness to secure her testimony in the LaGrange case, but there was no way Jessica could have found out about that already—

“Well,” Jessica says, interrupting his mental litany of sins, “I hope you can provide a better score than that on this case.” She points to a thick blue file on his desk that had definitely not been there last night. “It’s personal. For me, and by extension, the firm. Meaning, as candidate for senior partner,” she stands and walks toward him, pausing only inches away to raise her eyebrows, “it’s personal for you. Treat it as such.”

She sweeps out of the office, leaving behind the faint scent of Versense and far too much paperwork for Harvey to even consider starting his day with. He crosses over to his desk and picks up the file, holding it a safe distance away from his person, and presses the intercom button on his desk.

“Donna,” he starts, “can—”

“That idiot Gregory is on his way,” she interrupts. “And don’t forget you’re supposed to be deposing witnesses for the Jones blackmail suit at ten thirty in conference room seven.”

“Angel,” he replies, putting the blue folder down on the coffee table near his door, in plain sight.

“Yes, you lucky man,” Donna replies, and goes back to her typing. He takes his finger off the intercom button and sits down with a cup of coffee and today’s Times. It takes Gregory five minutes to make it to Harvey’s office, four minutes longer than necessary, so Harvey just points to the file without looking up and says,

“Summary with listing of relevant facts and respective page numbers on my desk by one this afternoon.”

There’s a pause. The associate shaped shadow doesn’t leave his doorway, and Harvey casually flips a page. “Are you still here?”

Out of the corner of his eye Harvey sees Gregory’s frown, but he finally takes the file and disappears, failing again to acknowledge Donna on his way out—big mistake; Harvey makes a mental note to make sure she knows he really does need that file, and losing it would do more harm to his reputation than Gregory’s.

Though, come to think of it, this is Donna he’s talking about. She probably already knows. And, as if she can sense his thoughts, his secretary swivels around in her chair and looks at him through the glass. 

“Deposition. Move.” She mouths. He puts down the coffee and obeys. 

\--

After what has to be one of the least interesting depositions of his career—the witness stammered through the whole interview, shifty eyed and defensive, until even his lawyer stopped trying to keep Harvey from walking all over the guy—Harvey runs into Louis Litt outside the conference room, where he’s sure “running into” had more to do with careful deduction and a long wait on Louis’ part. 

“Harvey, just the man I wanted to talk to,” Louis says, falling into step beside Harvey, who keeps walking. 

“And why is that, Louis?” Harvey says finally, when it becomes clear that Louis has no intention of taking the hint and removing himself to somewhere Harvey is not. 

“I noticed that you’ve commandeered Gregory, one of my associates, to do your grunt work for you—”

“Perceptive,” Harvey says, stepping quickly into the elevator and pressing the close doors button. Louis shamelessly jams his elbow between the doors and wedges himself in, continuing his tirade as they descend,

“And I really don’t think, as junior partner, that you have the authority to make those kinds of calls. Especially not with associates under my purview, and furthermore—”

“Louis,” Harvey interrupts, “all associates are under your purview. Which means all the lawyers in this firm must at some point or another give them assignments not directly authorized by you, or else nothing would get done. It’s standard firm policy. Give it a rest.”

He steps out of the elevator and moves toward the revolving doors in the main lobby, eyes on the hotdog stand just outside. Louis, unfortunately, is still following.

“Yes, but on this occasion, Harvey, I had Gregory doing some important work for me, so I would strongly advise you to find another—”

“Harvey Specter!” Someone says loudly from across the lobby, “Just the man I wanted to see!”

Harvey looks over and sees a tall, expensively dressed man in his late fifties crossing the marble floor toward them, a big, fake smile fixed on his features. He’s being trailed by a young man in a considerably less expensive suit, who isn’t bothering to smile.

“Oh my God,” Louis says quietly, “Is that Stan McNeill?”

Harvey doesn’t dignify that with a response, instead smiling broadly and just as genuinely at the newcomer, saying, “Stan, haven’t seen you in ages. How have you been?” Then, more suggestively, “How’s the wife?”

Stan’s smile twitches but he manages to keep the jovial note in his voice as he replies. “I’m doing well, and so is Denise, thank you for your interest.”

Harvey nods, fighting to keep his smile from turning into a smirk. McNeill continues, 

“I was delighted to hear that Pearson Hardman, and you in particular, picked up the opposition in my latest case—very kind of you, though you don’t really have the reputation of being a firm that likes to fight losing battles.”

“Come on Stan,” Harvey chides, “you know me. I don’t just fight losing battles. I win them.”

This catches the attention of McNeill’s blond shadow; his pale eyes flick up and lock on Harvey. There’s intelligence, there, instead of the usual star-struck expression most baby associates walk around wearing. Harvey’s never seen this kid before. It strikes him as odd—working with the famous Stan McNeill is a privilege most lawyers would sell their grandmothers for, not something generally awarded to a rookie fresh out of law school. Unless, of course, said rookie was something special.

Harvey, in a sudden burst of curiosity, wants to know what makes this one special. 

“Alright then Harvey,” McNeill is saying, pulling Harvey’s attention away from his associate’s blue eyed stare, “Let’s see you prove it in court. Because my firm’s not planning on settling here; Jensen MacIntyre is going to take your client for all he’s got and then some.”

Harvey raises his eyebrows, but McNeill is turning away and moving toward the elevators. The young associate follows dutifully, but not without one last sharp eyed glance at Harvey. Harvey sends him a wink, which seems to catch him off guard. When the kid looks away, the corners of his mouth are turned up into a smile.

Louis pipes up, breaking the silence. “Your case is against Stan McNeill? That one you gave Gregory? Actually, you know what, Harvey, I’ve reconsidered. Borrow Gregory for as long as you want. In fact, if you need an extra set of eyes, or hands, or any other body part, really, from a more experienced colleague—”

Harvey rolls his eyes and moves away, tuning Louis out and making a beeline for the hotdog stand. 

\--

It isn’t until three thirty that Gregory makes it back to Harvey’s office with the file, post it notes and colored page markers scattered throughout. He barges in and sets it down proudly on Harvey’s desk, right under his nose, scattering the correspondence Harvey had been proofing. 

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” He says, flashing a smile. It fades when Harvey looks pointedly at his watch, and then at the file.

“Apparently, you have other work to do that kept you from working on my case all morning,” Harvey says. “I think you’d better get on that.”

Gregory deflates a little, and moves away. “Well, if there’s anything else you think you might need,” he says as he moves toward the door. Harvey looks up in time to see Donna brush past him into the office.

“I’ve got an associate on the phone from Jensen MacIntyre trying to set up an appointment for his boss to discuss the wrongful termination case with you.”

Harvey tilts his head at her, and she points to the newly delivered file on his desk. He should probably get around to reading that as soon as possible—it looks like everyone but the attorney on the case knows what’s going on.

Harvey considers. “How does he sound?”

Donna shrugs. “Young, polite. Not desperate. Yet. I could chat with him for a bit if you’d like to change that, though.”

The blond, most likely. He’s probably been assigned most of the legwork on McNeill’s side of the case, with minimal supervision from his boss. Not exactly the careful training most newbie lawyers want, or expect. But then, McNeill’s one of the biggest names in law in the state of New York. He hasn’t had to do his own research or correspondence since the early nineties. 

“Sometime tomorrow,” he tells Donna, who knows his schedule far better than Harvey himself does. “Not too early,” he calls after her retreating back, and she flaps her hand at him.

He closes his door to prevent further interruption and settles in on the couch to read the damn case Jessica’s foisted on him.

Two hours later he’s silently cursing her, and all her ancestors. And the year 2008, which should be stricken from calendars everywhere. She’s making him defend a no-name—okay, not entirely; the man’s a veteran of Pearson Hardman—employee of Goldman Sachs’ risk management department, let go in 2005, who is now suing for seven years’ back pay as well as several million in emotional and future employment damages. The total adds up to something like twenty million. No wonder McNeill had laughed in Harvey’s face—and quipped about never settling. These cases were a dime a dozen in the aftermath of the financial crash, and most were virtually impossible to back up with evidence. 

All the banks had to do was send their most harangued looking attorney to claim disgruntled employees were taking advantage of their former company’s precarious financial situation to squeeze money out of them, and a defensive judge (who’d likely accepted campaign contributions from this bank or another in the same business) faced with an explanation hard to disprove, would rule in favor of the defense.

The plaintiff, faced with the veiled threat of a countersuit on extortion charges, would back down. And, since these people generally sued due to their lack of employment, losing these cases meant their attorneys didn’t get paid. Harvey hates pro bono, almost as much as he hates losing. But part of the reason he has such a stellar record is that he knows how to pick his battles.

He picks up the file and stands, moving purposefully towards Jessica’s office. She’s at her desk but not on the phone, so he walks in.

“Jessica,” he announces, “after reviewing the details of this case I think you should give it to Louis.”

Jessica doesn’t bother to look up from whatever it is she’s doing on the computer. “Do you?”

“Yes,” he says, unfazed. “It is highly technical in nature, and I believe someone with a more detailed knowledge of the financial sector would be better equipped—”

“No.” Jessica cuts him off. “I want you to take it. Consult Louis on the details if need be, but you’re taking point on this.”

He opens his mouth, and now she looks up—though he rather wishes she hadn’t, because he can sometimes forget what a scary woman his mentor is. “No arguments. Get to work. I want to see you come out on top with this one. Not only would you be defending the reputation of this firm by protecting a former employee, but you will also turn the heads of many other potential clients with the same complaints.” Her gaze narrows, “And the same payoffs.”

He closes his mouth and leaves. There’s no arguing with her when she gets like this. He’s learned that lesson from experience too: it’s also important to pick his battles when it comes to Jessica.

\--

Donna, that clever woman, scheduled his meeting with McNeill and company for eleven. McNeill is a man of routine in many ways, one of which is his lunchtime: noon, on the dot, every day. If they haven’t wrapped up in forty-five minutes, McNeill will start to get antsy and more liable to give away something he really shouldn’t. 

This meeting is a courtesy briefing on paper, but in reality it’s the “lawyers using words with real meaning” meeting, clients not invited. McNeill’s brought his puppy, though. The puppy is watching Harvey with those piercing blue eyes now, distracting but not debilitating. McNeill is watching Harvey too, but somehow that’s less entertaining.

“So,” McNeill begins, “how do you want this to go, Harvey? You know we won’t settle; our client can’t afford to set that kind of precedent.”

“Yes,” Harvey agrees, “Losing much more visibly and much more expensively in court would be the better course of action.” He pauses. “For Pearson Hardman.”

McNeill laughs loudly, but it rings hollow. He’s anxious. Harvey’s total lack of concern is getting to him—he’s afraid there’s something he doesn’t know. He’s going to play the intimidation card now, and when that doesn’t work, he’ll play the facts and data game.

“Harvey,” McNeill says, “my clients are important people. They’ve got real clout, politically, legally, financially—”

Harvey doesn’t bother to listen to this spiel. He’s heard it before, all three hundred and two versions, in one form or another. Instead, he looks over at the associate, who has turned his gaze to the Manhattan skyline behind Harvey’s head, wistful and more pensive than intimidating or serious. He doesn’t seem to be listening to his boss either. 

Harvey waits a moment after McNeill finishes, then gives him a small smile. “Don’t waste any more of your breath. We won’t be backing off. I just wanted to make sure you knew where both parties stand on this issue. I wouldn’t want you to mislead your client as to our intentions.”

“Do you know how many suits of this kind have been filed in the past four years?” McNeill says angrily. Harvey sighs at the predictability of this man’s offense. “And how many of those have actually made it to trial, or arbitration, or even past preliminary investigation? Nobody is winning, Harvey. You won’t be the only lawyer who has tried—you won’t even be the best. So don’t expect miracles.”

He pushes himself to his feet and makes a sharp gesture at the associate, who stands more gracefully and pushes his chair back in behind him. 

McNeill turns before he leaves, and looks Harvey dead in the eyes, serious. “That’s where we stand. Just so you know.”

\--

Harvey waits a few minutes in the conference room before following them out. Sure enough, once they hit the sidewalk McNeill is shoving his briefcase at the associate and barking out orders before sliding into the Cadillac idling at the curb. The associate nods, readjusts his grip on the briefcase, and begins walking. 

Harvey takes a few quick steps and catches up to him.

“If you’re looking for lunch,” he says casually, “You’re heading in the wrong direction.”

The associate glances at him, amused. “Actually, my only orders were to tell you, when you started following me, that McNeill will be keeping a close eye on your actions pertaining to this case. To make sure you ‘paint inside the lines’.”

He raises his left hand to put the last phrase in air quotes. Harvey laughs. “I’ve known McNeill for almost seven years now. I’m glad he’s finally catching on. But it doesn’t sound like he’s prohibited you from eating.”

The associate’s eyebrows raise slightly. “Are you offering to buy me lunch?”

Harvey gives him a genuine smile. “I was an associate once. I know what your starting salary looks like. I also know the price of an apartment in the city—you’d like something other than ramen or frozen pizza for a change, wouldn’t you?”

This kid doesn’t work for Pearson Hardman, so none of Harvey’s absolutely fake compassion act is setting off the bullshit alarm in his head. Though, really, even someone who knows Harvey's tatics could be drawn in—Harvey is certain that he would have been a great actor, if he’d chosen to pursue a less profitable walk of life. Oh wait, he is a great actor. Case in point: this scenario. 

The associate’s lips twitch. “I’m not sure what Pearson Hardman starts their associates on, but frozen pizza’s not in my budget. So yes, lunch would be great.”

Harvey claps him on the shoulder, using the pressure to turn him in the opposite direction. “Great. There’s a Brazilian place at the end of the next block.”

It turns out Harvey guessed right: the associate is a meat guy. And his name is Michael Ross.

“Mike.”

He has a firm grip. Harvey inclines his head. “Harvey Specter.”

Mike grins and glances at him sideways, half his attention still on the steak in front of him. “I know who you are.”

Harvey nods. “From Stan.” 

“Yes. Also from the newspapers. And from transcripts of your old court cases from the DA’s office and the county clerk’s website.”

Harvey is taken aback. “From the District Attorney’s office? And the county—you read some of my cases?”

“No,” Mike says, “I read all your cases.” He meets Harvey’s surprise with a shrug. “I like to be thorough.”

“All right,” Harvey says, “2001, patent—”

“SunTech Systems,” Mike cuts in, “Stated value of twenty million at the time of filing—probably a little less, in my opinion, but I guess that’s why I’m a lawyer and not a venture capitalist. A good investment though; they didn’t go down with the rest of the deadweight tech startups when the dot com bubble popped a few months later.” He takes a big bite of his steak, then adds, “Worth an easy fifty million today if you count intellectual property and employees.”

Harvey pauses: ostensibly to take a drink of his water, actually to try and pick up his jaw from where it’s fallen somewhere on the floor under the table. How did Pearson Hardman miss this one? Harvey blames Louis Litt. 

Mike smiles at him apologetically, not fooled in the least. “Eidetic memory. It wigs people out sometimes.”

“I’m not sure whether it’s your memory or your use of the phrase ‘wigs out’ that frightens me more,” Harvey mutters. Mike laughs out loud; the first real laugh Harvey’s heard from him, and when he smiles his eyes light up.

Harvey hates to be a wet blanket, but he’s here for a reason, and that reason is not to make a new friend out of Jensen MacIntyre’s latest hire, no matter how cute he is when he’s smiling.

“Mike,” he says quietly, “You and Stan are keeping something from me. I need to know what that is.”

Mike’s eyebrows come together as he frowns, lips turning downwards. He’s silent. Harvey knows he’s guessed right again. 

“I’ll find out what it is that you’re hiding,” Harvey says, “But I’d prefer it if you’d save me the trouble. And then I could save you and your client the humiliation of dragging it into the light of the courtroom.”

Mike stands, tosses his napkin on the table. “Thanks for lunch,” he says. 

Harvey holds out a business card, and watches Mike’s face as he looks at it incredulously. 

“In case you change your mind,” Harvey explains.

“I can find your number on Google,” Mike says, “I’ve called your office before.”

“If you call this number,” Harvey says, “Donna will actually put you through. Otherwise you’ll have to leave a message, which will be filed according to the Donna Priority System, meaning I might get it a week later.” Harvey pauses, then adds, “Unless, of course, what you’re really after is a chat with Donna, in which case I’d advise—”

A blushing Mike snatches the card away with a petulant expression, and Harvey suppresses a laugh as he watches him walk away. But Mike looks carefully at the card before he pointedly tosses it into the trash can outside the building, so Harvey knows the number is safely stored away in the steel trap of his mind.

All Harvey has to do now is wait for the call.

\--

Something else happens first.

When Harvey gets back to the office he’s halfway through his office door before Donna catches his attention.

“Jessica’s in her office with your client,” she tells him, and he does an about-face and starts walking quickly in the other direction, Donna at his side.

“How long?” he asks.

How Donna manages to match his pace in high heels is something he doesn’t ever want to know. He has a feeling it will be bad for his ego. “Half an hour,” she replies, “Roughly.”

And now he’s really moving, and she breaks away to go back to her desk. 

Harvey sees them through the wide glass doors of Jessica’s office, sitting on the couch and chatting comfortably. Or, at least the client’s comfortable. Jessica’s developing a twitch in her left foot, and keeps surreptitiously scanning the hallway. Harvey pauses before he enters her line of sight, smoothing back his hair and catching his breath. There is absolutely no way he’s walking into a client meeting out of breath—he has an image to maintain.

Composed, he pushes open the door to Jessica’s office and saunters in with a smile. “Lawrence, it’s been too long.”

This is a lie: Harvey had barely known Lawrence Fisher at all when he was working for Pearson Hardman, and the only conversation they’d ever shared had been at Harvey’s first annual Pearson Hardman Christmas party, when Lawrence had, after too many drinks, laid out for Harvey his entire family history. Lawrence had lingered for so long on his great grandfather Irving Fisher, the most famous of the bunch, that Harvey had feigned stomach sickness and left early. 

But Lawrence is all friendliness and accommodation now that Harvey’s not a freshman associate any more, and Lawrence hasn’t seen a brief in years. 

“Harvey Specter, good to see you. You’re looking great,” Lawrence says, standing up and shaking Harvey’s hand vigorously. 

Lawrence, on the other hand, has lost weight. He looks pale. Seven years of unemployment and a multimillion dollar lawsuit pending can do that to a person. He’s lucky he has Harvey representing him, or this scenario would be much more bleak.

“I was just telling Lawrence how hard you’ve been working on his behalf,” Jessica says smoothly as both men sit down again. 

“Yes,” Harvey says, “I’m not usually late for client meetings—” (he’s not, since usually he schedules meetings with his clients, and doesn’t forget to tell himself about them) “but this time I have a great excuse: I just got out of a talk with opposing council.”

“And?” Lawrence says, hopeful. Harvey vows to himself that he’ll never leave the law practice. Not for any amount of money would he put himself in Lawrence Fisher’s shoes right now.

He starts to explain their position. 

Three hours, two bottles of water, and six rough pages of offense sketched out, Lawrence’s phone rings. He ignores it, the first two times, and on the third reaches angrily into his pocket and mutters,

“This had better be important.”

He puts the phone to his ear, listens, and all the color drains from his face. Jessica stands. “What is it Lawrence?”

He closes the phone and turns with trembling fingers. “My daughter Jill—she was knocked off her bike by a car. She’s in the emergency room now; hasn’t regained consciousness.”

Jessica looks at Harvey, lips compressed, and tilts her head. Harvey nods, says, “I’ll drive you to the hospital, Lawrence. My car’s out front.” 

They leave, and Harvey sees Jessica going for her phone, a thunderous expression on her face. He smiles slightly. Jessica doesn’t rile easily—one of the many reasons she’s been so successful in the practice of law—but watch out when you do ruffle her feathers. Apparently, she doesn’t think this biking accident is an accident either. 

Lawrence’s daughter is in critical condition when they arrive. She hadn’t been wearing a helmet, and the pavement fractured her skull, as well as her right shoulder and collarbone. The doctors were most worried about internal bleeding, though. Lawrence was shaking like a leaf by the end of this monologue. 

“This is my fault,” he kept saying, “they’re taking it out on her because of me.”

“Lawrence,” Harvey says, grabbing his shoulder and giving him a shake, “these are investment bankers we’re dealing with, not mob bosses. They don’t go around knocking off people’s children, and certainly not for a petty lawsuit like yours.”

He’s understating. Lawrence’s lawsuit will be huge. Not for the money, but for the statement it will make about the changing face of Wall Street—and Harvey knows that people with money hate to see the world turn. Enough to knock a girl off her bike? Perhaps. Especially if, as Harvey suspects, the action was meant to scare, not cause actual damage. Most bikers brushed by cars take a spill, bruise their elbows, and get up yelling abuse about all drivers everywhere—this is the worst case scenario they’re experiencing, and most likely the driver didn’t mean to cause this level of damage.

“It is because of me,” Lawrence whimpers, “Because of what I know. It’s a warning, I know it is.”

“What do you know, Lawrence? What do you have on them?” Harvey asks. But Lawrence just shakes his head vigorously, lips sealed tight with fear. Harvey can tell by looking at him that there won’t be another coherent sentence for at least two hours, and settles in to wait. 

They’re still waiting in the hospital at ten thirty pm, when a frazzled looking Mike Ross bursts out of the elevator and into the waiting room. His eyes lock on Harvey, and he makes his way over to them.

“Mr. Fisher,” he says, addressing Lawrence, “I’m Mike Ross, from Jensen MacIntyre. We’ve just heard about your daughter’s accident—is she alright?”

Mike doesn’t start off with a disclaimer, which might be the only thing that keeps Lawrence from punching him in the face. Instead, Lawrence crumples under that concerned blue eyed stare, shaking his head and covering his face with his hands. Mike turns to Harvey.

Harvey shrugs. “She’s out of surgery, under supervision still. They expect she’ll pull through without permanent damage. But it was a near miss.” 

He’s watching Mike closely as he says this, waiting for a reaction to give him a hint as to the level of Jensen MacIntyre’s suspicions about the accident. Mike’s eyes are angry, but not surprised, which says enough. He sits down next to Harvey, dropping his bag on the floor.

Harvey raises an eyebrow at him. “Stan send you to babysit?”

“No.” Mike says shortly. “I took the rest of the day off. I’m coming down with the flu.”

Harvey would laugh, if the situation permitted. What he wouldn’t give to have Mike Ross batting for Pearson Hardman, with his eidetic memory and willingness to bend the rules for what he believes; Harvey reads people for a living, he can tell Mike’s not here under orders. Also, the pretty face doesn’t hurt, either.

They sit with Lawrence until midnight, when Mike is dozing and nearly falling out of his chair (how busy are they at Jensen Mac?) and Lawrence has paced himself into a stupor.

Harvey reaches down to where Lawrence is sitting (sprawling) on the floor, and touches his shoulder. Lawrence starts, and looks up. 

“I should probably get going,” Harvey says quietly, “and take the kid home. Will you call me if anything changes?”

Lawrence nods without conveying any sense of understanding, and returns to his examination of the floor. Harvey gets up and grabs Mike’s shoulders, hauling him upright. “Come on kiddo, on your feet.”

“I’m not a kid,” Mike says, but he’s swaying, leaning into Harvey and completely undermining that assertion. 

Harvey puts an arm around his waist and leads him to the elevators at the end of the hall. The light above them is dimmed; whether for energy conservation or atmosphere, Harvey isn’t sure. None of the rooms in the hallway have windows. If they had, he’s sure the nurses would constantly be tripping over dozens of concerned relatives trying to press their noses against the glass. He’s just tired enough for the image to be funny, and Mike catches his quiet laugh.

“What’s funny?”

“Windows,” Harvey says, “And family.”

Mike smiles at him like this makes sense, and adds bizarrely, “And family is a haven in a heartless world. He’s lucky, you know.”

Harvey wonders what’s become of Mike’s family. Which is also bizarre, since he barely ever even wonders about his own family. The elevator jerks to a stop, depositing them on the ground floor. They shuffle out to make room for two sobbing women and a tired old man in a leather jacket. Ray is waiting outside, leaning against the car. Harvey looks at Mike and considers for a moment, then nods to Ray, who opens the backseat. Mike slides in without protest.

“Where do you live?” Harvey asks, and Mike has to think about this for a moment, before deciding on an address. Harvey raises his eyebrows a little at this; either Mike’s more exhausted than he thought, has recently moved, or is afraid to give up his real address.

It turns out to be the first. When Ray pulls to a stop in front of the ancient looking red brick apartment building, Mike stumbles up the stairs and into the hallway with the air of someone going through familiar motions in his sleep (he might be, Harvey can’t actually tell, but his eyes are closed). After three tries, Mike finally gets his door open, and practically falls in. Harvey follows, to make sure he gets himself into bed without accidentally skewering himself or hitting his head.

“When was the last time you slept?”

“Mmm…two days ago? Tuesday? What day is it?” 

Mike finds the bed and falls onto it face first, fully clothed. Harvey shakes his head and strides over. He sits on the edge of the bed to unlace Mike’s shoes and pulls them off. He moves up and reaches over to untie the ridiculously skinny tie around Mike’s neck, to prevent an accidental suffocation from occurring and thus averting a potential lawsuit, when Mike turns over sleepily. Quick as a snake, belying his otherwise zombie-like state, Mike’s hand is on Harvey’s. Harvey pauses, and Mike opens his eyes.

“Thank you,” Mike says quietly, seriously.

Harvey looks at him and doesn’t say anything. Suddenly he wants nothing more than to be out of this dark and cramped apartment, away from Mike’s sincere blue eyed stare, cheap suit, hideous tie, and overwhelming sense of morality. Mike looks like he’s reading Harvey’s thoughts faster than Harvey is thinking them, and lets go of his hand. Giving Harvey permission to go. 

And then he negates the action by pushing himself up onto his elbows and kissing Harvey. Harvey’s mind blanks for a split second—he kisses back, before his brain catches up enough to warn that this is a phenomenally bad idea. Then Mike’s moving away, back down to the bed with his eyes closed; in another moment he’s dead to the world, leaving Harvey frozen like a statue on the side of his bed.

It takes a few minutes for Harvey to pull himself together and leave, but he does, and shuts the door quietly on his way out. He just wants this night to be over. Along with this lawsuit, so he can stop worrying about Lawrence’s all-consuming guilt, Jessica’s angry determination, Stan’s shifty language. The press of Mike’s lips.

He shakes his head again, briskly, and has Ray drive him home. Alone.

\---

Harvey’s not normally like this. He’s slept with attorneys before, both ones on his side and against, without much difficulty. He knows how to leave what happens in the bedroom behind when he steps into court. And yet…

He finds himself thinking about Mike and that kiss more in the next twelve hours than he’s thought of any woman he’s actually slept with. He doesn’t recognize this part of himself; he barely knows the kid. Mike isn’t the most attractive man he’s ever seen (Harvey looks at that face from the other side of a mirror every morning). He’s probably the smartest, though Harvey has yet to discern how much of Mike’s intelligence is due to the photographic memory he was born with, and how much is analytical and critical thinking. 

He finds himself pitching Pearson Hardman to Mike in his head, running through the best ways to sell a defection to Harvey’s firm. Pay raise. Respect. Honest dealings. It feels odd. He’s never chased an associate before—they’re always running after him. In some ways, it’s a nice change of pace. In another life, Harvey knows he would make a fantastic salesman.

Wait. He is a fantastic salesman. Of ideas, not cheap products, but—Harvey gets up and grabs Lawrence Fisher’s file off the couch, flipping through the copies of Goldman’s financials from the end of 2004 to the beginning of 2005. And, yes, there it is. He can use this. In court, it would be dicey, but to push a settlement?

“Donna,” he calls, “get me Stan McNeill on the phone please.”

“Your boy at Jensen MacIntyre must be psychic,” she calls back, “He’s on line three now.” 

“My boy?” Harvey says, but he’s not actually confused. He picks up the phone. “Harvey Specter.”

“Hey, Harvey, this is Mike Ross.” Yes, Harvey thinks, as if I couldn’t have guessed. “I need to talk to you—is there somewhere we can meet?”

Ah. Harvey shelves his settlement proposal and says, “Can you come to my office?”

“I’d rather not. The last thing this case needs is allegations of conspiracy.”

Too late for that, Harvey thinks, but he suggests the Café Mozart, two blocks from Central Park. Mike agrees to noon, and hangs up. Harvey is surprised to find himself smiling. Donna looks aghast. 

“What did he say to you?” She asks over the intercom.

Harvey throws her a wink and grabs his jacket, “I’ll be back before two,” he says, “Please don’t let me come back to a surprise get together between my boss and my client.”

Donna looks at him. “It wouldn’t have been a surprise if you’d bothered to check your calendar.”

Harvey ignores this, and her smirk, as he walks by. 

“Have a nice date!” Donna calls after him. Harvey rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling. Finally, this case looks like it’s shaping up.

\--

Mike’s already waiting at the Café Mozart when Harvey arrives. He’s got a bike helmet on the seat next to him, and one leg of his suit pants is tellingly caught in his sock. Harvey is, somehow, not surprised at all. Of course it would be biker’s empathy that finally gives Mike the kick in the ass he needs to spill on his employers. Or his client. Harvey’s reserving judgment on that until he hears Mike say his piece.

“Mike Ross,” Harvey says, sliding into the booth across from him, “You have something for me?”

Mike looks up at him, and there’s a moment of tension where it feels like Mike wants to say something— ‘about last night’ or, ‘when I kissed you’ or, ‘can we just…’—except he doesn’t. Instead, he says,

“You make me sound like a private investigator, or an FBI informant.”

“Hey,” Harvey says, “You’re the one who wanted the clandestine meeting.”

Mike’s voice takes on an odd tenor as he says, “I…I never gave up anybody…who wasn’t going down anyway.” It takes Harvey a minute to get it.

“The Departed?” He laughs, “Seriously?”

Mike shrugs and leans back, the playfulness leaking out of his expression as he changes tack. “Yeah. I’m guessing you don’t think last night was a random hit and run?”

Harvey doesn’t say anything, and Mike continues. “The answer to the question you’re not asking is yes and no. Yes, the driver was one of the men responsible for firing Lawrence Fisher without legal cause, and one of those included specifically in the lawsuit. No, he wasn’t trying to hurt her—he’d had a few drinks, before getting into the car, saw her on the street and didn’t really think it through, which, I know, weak defense.”

“This man knew she was Fisher’s daughter?” Harvey asks. “And, also, you believe that bullshit story?”

“Yes. Their daughters went to high school together for four years, and shared an apartment for a year after college. The girls stayed in touch after their fathers’ altercation.” He ignores the second question.

Harvey tilts his head until he catches Mike’s eye. “You know this is the end of your case, don’t you? A settlement isn’t as bad for your client’s public image as allegations of attempted homicide, or jail time for driving while intoxicated.”

Mike’s blue eyes are fierce, and he doesn’t back down from Harvey’s gaze. “What that man did was wrong. He deserves to be punished for it. I’m not going to protect him.”

Harvey leans back, feeling a renewed burst of determination to steal Mike for Pearson Hardman. “All right then.”

Mike nods. “All right.” He pauses, and Harvey can feel it coming. For someone so clever, Mike is shockingly transparent. “Listen, about last night—”

Harvey shrugs and gives Mike his best lawyer smile. “Don’t worry about it. You were clearly not in your right mind.”

“I was going to say,” Mike says carefully, eyes still focused on Harvey’s face, “that I’m not sorry. And I don’t take it back.”

Oh. That’s a curveball. Harvey’s caught off guard, poker face slipping, and Mike winks as he stands. 

“I’ll be seeing you around. Soon.”

And then he walks away, leaving Harvey, for the second time, speechless in his wake.   
That boy, Harvey thinks to himself as he pulls out his phone to call Vanessa, is something akin to a force of nature. Gravity, maybe, from the way he’s pulling Harvey in. And it is telling, though how, exactly, Harvey’s not interested in analyzing, that Harvey’s letting it happen.

\--

Harvey’s settlement meeting goes spectacularly. He gets everything he asks for; Stan folds without a fight when he learns Harvey knows the truth about the hit and run. Lawrence Fisher will get his back pay, and his damages. 

“If I could just ask you for one thing, Harvey,” Stan says as he gathers his papers, the signed settlement agreement among them, to leave. “Try to keep this one out of the papers. We’ve taken far too much trouble building the financial sector back up over the past four years to have it buried in frivolous lawsuits now.”

“Frivolous?” Harvey queries, but he’s feeling magnanimous now, and he nods his acquiescence to Stan’s request. And besides, Harvey’s always had a healthy respect for other lawyers at the top of their game—when he inevitably finds himself on the wrong end of a settlement one day, he wants to be treated well. 

So yes, Harvey’s settlement meeting goes as well as could be hoped for. Except for one thing: Stan doesn’t bring Mike. And, as Mike’s been practically glued to Stan’s shirttails throughout this entire case, this is a little troublesome. 

He remembers Mike’s smile, as he promises to see Harvey soon. Whatever the reason Mike’s been cut out, it’s not voluntary. And Harvey knows he’s to blame. 

It leaves an unfamiliar and uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach, and the beginning of a headache brewing behind his eyes. This is ridiculous—Mike is a grown man, responsible for his choices. Harvey shouldn’t be feeling guilty about this. He downs an aspirin and buries himself in paperwork for the rest of the day, allowing only a brief respite to hear Jessica’s congratulations. They are, as usual, an equal mix of praise and provocation.

“I heard you settled the case well for our client,” she says when she pokes her head into his office, “Not bad.”

“Not bad?” Harvey says, “Try ‘absolutely fantastic’.”

Jessica laughs. “Oh, come on Harvey. You didn’t win on merit; you got lucky the other side made a mistake. Here at Pearson Hardman, we prefer home runs, but we don’t turn our nose up when the batter gets walked.”

And then she disappears, leaving Harvey indignant. “I didn’t get walked.” He says to the empty office. “That has to be a double, at least.”

And, of course, now his shoulder is aching along with his stomach. He has a feeling ibuprofen won’t help—they’re both phantom pains. And now Donna is looking at him strangely from her desk, not even pretending to work. He glares at her, but his heart’s not in it, so he turns back to the merger on his desk.

At least contracts won’t insult him or, worse, make him feel anything. 

\--

Three weeks later, the impossible happens. 

Okay, so that’s an overstatement. The improbable happens. Harvey sees Mike Ross at Pearson Hardman. In Jessica’s office. He stops outside the glass door to stare—Jessica glances up and makes a face that he recognizes as her, “seriously, move along” expression, and so he does. But he doesn’t go far. 

Louis Litt, by unfortunate coincidence, is also lurking nearby, and takes the opportunity to try and talk to Harvey.

“So, are you waiting to see Jessica?” he asks. 

Harvey ignores him and keeps his eyes on Jessica’s office. Louis waits a few moments, and then when it becomes clear that Harvey isn’t going to respond, adds, “Because I need to see her too. About a very important case. Plus, I was here first.” 

The door to Jessica’s office opens, and Mike steps out. He sees Harvey immediately, and his lips curve up slightly. Harvey tilts his head and starts walking towards his office. Mike follows, and Louis is looking after them, confused.  
“Wait, really?” Harvey hears him say, “But that argument never works on you. Are you sick or something?”

Harvey doesn’t miss the way Donna looks up and grins suggestively when he walks into his office with Mike on his heels. He also catches the way Mike grins back at her, and begins to smell a conspiracy. 

When Mike closes the door behind him, Harvey turns and asks point blank, “What are you doing here?”

Mike says, “Having a job interview. Which, by the way, I’m pretty sure I nailed.”

Harvey rolls his eyes. “No, seriously? I couldn’t tell.” He pauses before adding, “That’s sarcasm, by the way.” 

Mike is still looking way too pleased with himself. “I decided it was time for a change. Of scenery. Did you know J-Mac puts their associates on the seventh floor of a building located across from a children’s hospital? I swear, the parents are more annoying than their sick kids when you have to listen to that drama all day.”

It appears Mike’s mood is catching. Harvey’s chest feels lighter than it has in days. “And so you selected Pearson Hardman as the firm with the most promising view?”

Mike takes his time looking Harvey up and down. “Pretty good view from where I’m standing.”

Harvey feels absurdly flattered. “You realize you’ll have to start from the bottom and work your way up to an office with a view, right?”

Mike moves closer, smiling, “What, you mean I can’t hang out in yours?” 

Harvey raises an eyebrow but stands his ground. “You’re a rookie associate. Why would I possibly want you in my office?”

“Because I’m an awesome rookie associate. I work so fast you’ll get whiplash.” He’s close enough to touch now. Harvey slides his hands into his pockets.

“Talk is cheap. I’ll believe it when I see it. Assuming Jessica decides to hire you, of course.” 

“She will,” Mikes says carelessly, more focused on Harvey’s face than the conversation. “But I have to ask, does working for you mean I don’t get to kiss you anymore?”

Harvey is speechless for a moment. “That was…forward.”

Mike shrugs, “Just getting the ground rules straight.”

“I…see.”  
Mike grins suddenly, and his expression loses its serious intensity. “I’m going to take your non-answer as a no.” He moves in with intent, but this time Harvey actually does sidestep.

“Not here. Idiot.” 

Donna is shamelessly neglecting her work to watch them through the glass. Harvey grimaces at her, and she give him a thumbs up. 

Mike rocks back on his heels. “That’s fine. No workplace PDA. I’m cool with the discreet relationship.” 

“Mike,” Harvey says, “What makes you think there is going to be any relationship.”

Mike smiles slightly. “I heard you were asking around about me, after the Fisher case settled.” 

Harvey shoots Donna a betrayed look. Mike continues, “I didn’t want to contact you immediately after, or do anything that might look like we’d worked together during that case; McNeill was suspicious, sure, but he couldn’t do anything about it. I gave my two weeks notice a week later and contacted Pearson Hardman about any available positions. I was assured that there were openings.” (Donna again, Harvey’s sure. Her meddling instincts know no limits). 

“Okay, but so what?” Harvey asks, “That’s not answering the question.”

Mike continues as if Harvey hasn’t interrupted. “I told Jessica I was disappointed by the ethics—or rather, lack thereof—at my previous place of employment. I’d seen the way other lawyers operated, and been inspired to find a new boss.”

Harvey’s quiet now, and Mike goes in for the kill. “Plus, I’ve seen the way you look at me.”

He turns and walks towards the door, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll see you after work!”

Harvey pointedly ignores the high five he gives Donna on his way out. He’s going to have a talk with that woman. Just as soon as he stops smiling at her.


End file.
